Keeping Time
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Written for the Shinigami Scribblings prompt, "music," on tumblr. Alan, Eric


Part one of the "Time and Error" series. Written for the Shinigami Scribblings prompt _music _on tumblr. 

* * *

**Keeping Time**

One of the prerequisites would-be reapers must fulfill before sitting their exams is to spend a day with a metronome in a white room, doing nothing except watching it tick back and forth.

It's all quite civil – they _are_ English, after all – and candidates are allowed a dinner hour and two intervals at which point they may get up and stretch their legs.

It's intended to give an idea of what death is like, and what, as a reaper, they must do in counterpoint. They _are_ that perfectly regulated rhythm, never wavering or changing; there is no passion between clicks, no variance, no gray area.

It seems like a simple enough task – to sit in a white room with a metronome, watch it clicking back and forth – and to then leave. In fact, it almost seems too easy.

Unexpectedly, however, it proves to be a rather effective filter for candidates that can't hack it. Only about three-quarters of students go on to their formal exams, and an even smaller number successfully passes to attain the rank of junior and be placed with a mentor.

Alan survives the metronome test by breathing; it's easy that way, because it takes focus. They don't _need_ to breathe, but it's steadying; that, and Alan has excellent balance and poise. In fact, he excels in practical as well as written skills – just as good with a scythe as he is with a pen – and through strength of mind he's able to move onto London.

Eric Slingby is the only one to see him pause in between beats, on his first reap when he cries a bit, and it's rather embarrassing. But time moves on, Alan glides over the bell curve, and eventually he's one of the most respected reapers at the Dispatch.

But throughout his tenure, Alan hears maddening, _irregular_ clicks everywhere: the uneven clip of horse hooves in the street; one of General's staff clicking her nails in four, uneven beats of boredom; even his own pocket watch seems to be ticking at the wrong pace.

Perfect rhythm is only meant for them, for the divine, and yet Alan finds flaws everywhere he turns. It becomes too much to bear, to the point of distraction, and so he stops carrying a watch.

"How will you know what time it is?" Eric asks him one day, cocking his head to the side with a baffled expression.

Alan shrugs and says he'll use Big Ben; that he has, "personal reasons."

Alan's never used that excuse before, but it does seem to scare Eric off for at least a little while. He can't really say anything as long as Alan's doing his job.

But it continues, and Alan starts to feel like there's a pounding in his head, a correcting, perfect metronome clicking back and forth, forcing him to remain steady and do what he's _supposed_ to.

Alan knows he must ignore that gray and purple-tinged area in between the clicks: the tense silence during the metronome test when he _couldn't_ breathe, the sound of weeping amidst Eric's surprised gaze and a swirl of purple petals.

All the spaces in _between_ the orderly ticks is what Alan has to avoid.

He just has to forget about it, focus diligently on his duty as a bringer of death, an orderly force in the universe, and forget about bloody metronomes and susceptibility... his own nature, really.

Unexpectedly, however, it's Eric that brings up the metronome test one night.

It's an ordinary evening, nothing important taking place, not even a heavy workload. It's lazy and warm outside, and Eric's drinking an amber bitter. Alan's stuck to water, much to the friendly jibing of his coworkers, but it's far too warm and muggy for the tart sweetness of beer.

"How are you faring without your watch?" Eric asks idly.

"Just fine," Alan replies, taking a sip of his water. The ice clinks loudly and he looks down at the table.

"Bloody loud, time is," Eric comments with a raised eyebrow. "Even your Big Ben... all that clanging. One reason I don't carry watches with second hands."

Alan looks up in surprise. "You don't?"

Eric grins at him, resting a head in his head and taking a lazy sip of his beer.

"Gave that up the moment they passed me. Do you remember that bloody metronome test they put us through? Did they still do that when you were a student?"

Alan can tell he must go pale, because something shifts in Eric's eyes when Alan doesn't answer immediately.

It's impossible nowadays to hide his feelings from Eric. Hiding them from anyone else is simple, and Alan does it frequently... it's just that Eric knows him far too well, and Alan doesn't _like_ hiding things from him.

"I failed that test three times, but told me I had such promise that they let me re-take it," he continues, laughing a little under his breath. "The examiners chalked it up to boredom, and I said I was distracted by the lovely ladies training for the General Affairs department."

Alan laughs softly, rolling his eyes.

Eric's voice is soft and calm, but Alan can tell it's only intended for his ears, when he adds, "I may have lied."

Alan raises his eyebrows curiously. "Why _did_ you fail, then?"

"I bloody hate _ticking_," he says, almost downright vehement. "Ticking off names, ticking off seconds... What a load of bollocks."

"Well, we have no room for error," Alan replies, quoting the handbook despite himself.

"Right, we have no room for error," Eric agrees, "but what we do... on our time off is our business."

Alan's eyes widen. He'd never thought of it quite like that.

"But... our only purpose is to... reap."

"Is that really all you think about, Alan?" Eric asks sincerely.

"Well, no..." He frowns, because he knows that it's a rhetorical question. "I think about other things, too."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Alan says, looking down at the knotted and biting his lip.

_How strange sorrow is, how beautiful Kew Gardens are in the spring, the old tomes in the library about aesthetics... you._

"Do you know what I think about?"

"Women?" Alan asks, a small smile on his face as he relaxes and lifts his eyes to look hesitantly at Eric.

"Well, that," Eric agrees, laughing a bit; but then he sobers again, "in addition to other things. But especially how much you need a pocket watch."

Alan sighs quietly and shrugs. He's being silly and he knows it; he lets too many things get to him, and he'll always be an outsider, never indifferent enough, always feeling the wrong things, and-

"You could wake the dead, Alan, thinking so hard," Eric says, "and that'd be no good. Would it now, mate?"

Before Alan can respond to the lighthearted interruption of his thoughts, Eric takes his hand. Alan can't help the way his breath catches – Eric doesn't mention it – and slides a familiar bronze watch on a chain into it.

"I'm fine without it," Alan says, cocking his head to the side in confusion. It's his own watch that he thought he'd turned back into General Affairs.

"Open it."

Alan does as asked, and it's strangely quiet. But then it makes sense, upon examination, because the seconds hand isn't ticking, but the minute and hour hands are correct.

He looks up at Eric with raised eyebrows, and Eric smiles at him.

"Still a bit of mentoring left in me, I suppose. Now, are you going to have a bloody drink or not?"

Alan slips the silent watch inside his jacket, smiling, and everything is quiet save for the sound of Eric's voice as he tells a story that has nothing to do with death.


End file.
